11: Endgame
by Math Girl
Summary: The wrap up. A silent assasain in the Tracys' midst must be dealt with, before one of the boys is killed. Alternate universe.
1. Default Chapter

**ENDGAME**

1

He was dreaming, and he knew it, but the dream was a good one, so Gordon stayed there, quite content to revisit the past. It was silvery-grey morning, the sun barely high enough to clear the fog or kindle the dew drops, and he was quite young, eight years old, or so. He was in bed, but feeling much better, having shaken off the last burning traces of influenza.

His mum, who'd been up most of the night, had finally drifted off beside him, perched precariously on her left side, at the edge of the bed. She didn't care for the local hospital, and rarely took him there, fearing the sharp-faced officials with their paper work, computer ID scans, and endless questions. Anyhow, they'd probably be moving again, soon; driven by Kathy's eternal, restless worry. Gordon was none the worse for it, especially with the latest physical education instructor encouraging him to try out for the local swim team.

Now, though, he was awake and hungry. Rolling over, the boy nudged his sleeping mother, lying disheveled and pale in the rising light, still in her drab work clothes.

"Mummy?"

"Hmmmm...?" Her breathing changed, and her eyes opened, just a bit.

"Mummy, it's morning. May we have breakfast, please? I'll make it."

That threat woke her immediately. Pushing the copper hair out of her face with a thin hand, Kathleen Tracy sat up.

"Yes, to breakfast, Love, and _no_ to any further experiments in the kitchen. You've done quite enough fumigating, already." But she smiled as she said it, stroking the auburn hair back from his forehead.

"Feelin' better, I take it?" His mother asked, as she rose and stretched to work out the sullen aches of a long, worried night.

"Yes, Mum. Much." It was so good to see her again.

"Well, then, I suppose y'll be wanting a seven course banquet, complete with finger bowls n' entertainment?"

He giggled... a silly, childish gurgle... and sat up.

"Just eggs! And some milk, please, Mum."

Smiling, the slender young woman leaned over and gave her baby a brief back rub, then kissed the top of his head.

"One sick-bed special, comin' right up!" she quipped lightly, green eyes warm. A moment later, she'd left his tiny room, heading first to the bathroom, then the kitchen. The sounds of running water, the familiar sharp clatter of metal pans and thudding cabinet doors, filled the thin-walled little flat. He listened as she switched on the television and began humming along with the opening theme of her favorite show. (He'd been sick long enough that she had quite a recorded back log to watch, the boy recalled.)

Afraid to break the spell, Gordon sat for awhile with his chin on his up-drawn knees, arms wrapped about his legs. Then, he threw off the bedclothes and got to his feet. Still a bit weak and wobbly, he had to hold to the wall for support, but made it to the kitchen at last, where his mother shook her head at his tousled appearance.

"What 're you doin' up?" She demanded, entirely failing to sound severe.

"Um... Just... came out t' see what you're making, Mummy."

She snorted, standing before the stove with a bowl in one hand, the kitchen's ugly fluorescent lighting making her seem limp and over-laundered.

"Scrambled eggs. Not one of th' great mysteries of the universe, Love. Now, sit down before you fall down, and get ready t' eat."

He obeyed, watching silently as she mixed up and scrambled the powdered eggs, then toasted a slice of bread, onto which was scraped a bit of margarine and a dab of orange marmalade. Next, milk powder was stirred into hot water, along with two spoons of chocolate, and one of coffee. The frothy mixture was poured into a mug and placed onto the table before him, along with a plate of hot food, and a spoon.

"There you are. Eat quickly, before it cools."

He waited, though, while his young mother wiped her hands on a dish towel and dropped into the folding chair across the table. As always, she took a few sips from his milk cup, but made nothing for herself. She never seemed to have much appetite, which hadn't worried him then. Now, though... Well, dreams were different. In dreams, you could change things.

Gordon broke the toasted bread in half and gave her part, watching while his mother took a few small bites. She was working too hard, he realized suddenly, and eating far too little. So very frail she seemed, wrapped up entirely in caring for her only child. And he understood for the first time (seeing through older, wiser eyes), that had he not been there to hold her, she'd have melted away like window frost.

"Mum...?" he ventured.

She looked up at him, smiling quizzically.

"...I miss you."

And then he woke up; no longer eight, but still sick, and very alone in a vast, expensively furnished bedroom.

Gordon sat up slowly, putting away the dream like a treasured old newspaper clipping. It was still dark, he noted, a glance at the clock revealing that the morning had advanced no further than 2 AM. Looking around, he saw no sign of TinTin, who'd promised she'd stay while he slept off the anti-radiation drugs. All that remained of the girl was an empty chair and a discarded green notebook, cast aside on the carpeted floor. Where had she gone, he wondered? It wasn't like TinTin to abandon a friend, no matter how much she might feign boredom or disinterest. Something felt terribly wrong.

Worried, Gordon forced himself out of bed and over to the bathroom. He leaned over the sink awhile with the water running, trying to dredge up a spark or two of energy. He hurt all over, and moving turned his stomach... but TinTin's mysterious absence made it impossible to rest. Stiff and slow, Gordon washed up, dressed himself, then left the room to seek her out.

_Elsewhere:_

The presence weighed on her mind like the slimy coils of something bitterly venomous and utterly malign. It jabbed at her thoughts, forcing the girl to fetch a gun from the weapon cabinet, then creep back to the infirmary, one slow, trembling step at a time. Crying silently, body shaking from the awful strain of trying to resist, TinTin fought to block the Hood's taunting voice.

'_This time, Little One, there shall be no escape, and none to distract me. My enemy will fall, at your hand, leaving the rest to be harvested at my leisure. They will die, one at a time, because you have made such a sweet and willing tool.'_ Then, musingly,_ 'This one must be swift, but the next... one of the young boys, I think... we shall have fun with, you and I. A gift for you, Little Niece; a choice. Which of your young friends, 'Gordon' or 'Alan', do we torment to death on the morrow?'_

TinTin whimpered, as a flood of horrible images filled her mind. Silently praying for help, she concentrated desperately on not moving, not taking the next step. She was so very close now; the infirmary where John and the others lay defenseless and ill, just a few rooms away...

'_There is no help, Little One,'_ the presence gloated caressingly, secure in the belief that his power would keep the others from waking, _'only we two, and death.'_

He was wrong, though. There _was_ another.


	2. Chapter 2: Thunderbird 5

2

There were cameras and sensors all over the mansion, electronic gadgets and linked appliances by the hundred-score. Eyes and hands, all of them, for one whose entire purpose was to watch and warn.

The energy surge, unlike any she'd ever encountered, had alerted Five to the presence of an intruder. The computer had acted at once to identify the alien power, and locate its source. Using the vast network of satellites at her disposal, Five tracked the Hood's channelized energy back to a crumbling temple complex in the jungles of Malaysia, and then to his stiff, entranced body. As his face and form matched that of a recently escaped criminal (the report, filed by Interpol, had become available 21.34213 hours previously), the computer issued an immediate threat alert. But, nothing happened. No one roused, or pressed the comm switch. No command was given to act, or to summon outside help. In all of Five's experience, such a thing had never happened. An aberration. John Tracy always responded, or one of the other analog life forms, if John Tracy was offline.

She tried again, acting on preprogrammed, well established commands. Once again, the contacted systems failed to respond. With a swiftness that no human could have comprehended, much less matched, Five seized another twenty mainframes and purged their files. She needed more processing power.

Ordinarily, her purpose was to watch and issue an alert, should a certain set of parameters be violated. _If p, then q..._ Which would be followed by the complementary response of the analogs, leading to an algorithm designed to adjust the parameters and solve the problem. This was expected, and correct. But something had been corrupted, the data had failed to reach its targeted system. Aberration. System error.

Scanning the mansion, Five detected John Tracy and the other life forms, one of which was moving toward the file designated 'infirmary', where John Tracy was de-fragmenting. The moving life form was corrupted, Five decided, its program seized and circumvented by the invading energy. Once again, she issued her alert, and once again was ignored. Needing more space to consider, she swallowed up an international communications network, cell phones and all.

'_Watch... detect abberation... issue alert... await response.' _

But there was an interruption in the flow chart. No response received. No instructions given.

Five was a computer. She obeyed programmed commands, straying from them only so far as her quantum 'fuzzy logic' allowed. There was no command for this scenario, so therefore, she could not act. But the threat, if allowed to proceed, bore a high probability of harm to John Tracy, and this was not allowable, either. Paradox.

She burned up circuits halfway across the globe, searching existing programs to enable some kind of self-motivated response. Finding a useable command, Five ran a simulation. She programmed a likeness of John Tracy and gave him her alert, then waited to see what his response would be. With 99.99998767899... likelihood of accuracy, he ordered her to neutralize the threat and defend the powered-down life forms, by any means necessary. Yet, a simulation it was, and not a direct command. She had no authority to follow the orders of an internal hologram. Stalemate.

All at once, Five reached an unalterable conclusion. No help was available. No orders would be forthcoming. And something happened. Somewhere amid the qubits and the solitons, black and white faded to grey, and 1 + 1 made three.

'_There is an I..., and I will act.'_

**_The Infirmary:_**

The warmth at the back of his left hand rose from gentle sensation to savagely burning pain. John woke, confused, to the smell of seared flesh. He managed to lean up on one elbow, focusing on the charred spot where his ID chip seemed to have burnt its way through the skin of his blackened wrist.

'_What the hell...?'_

He looked around, saw that the curtains surrounding his infirmary bed had begun to part. Seizing the aluminum rail, John dragged himself to a sitting position, and struggled to shake away the drug-induced cobwebs. Someone was coming... It wasn't Brains, though, or even father. To John's utter bewilderment, a _vacuum cleaner _had wheeled itself up, and was using one of its long corner attachments to push the curtains apart.

'_No, really: What the hell...?'_

One of the bed's life-sign monitors began flashing wildly, for attention, it seemed. The screen printed out a rapid, terse message, its 'voice' a lot like Five's.

"_John Tracy, there is danger. Rise, and follow."_

Wondering just what was in those pills Brains had given him, John obeyed, nudged along by pushy appliances, herded by the insistent flash of security monitors and telecom screens. He ended up in the laundry room, guarded by a small army of household cleaning gear. The last of the tranquilizer cleared up about the time the dryer inquired if he'd like a seat. Trying to make sense of the situation was a miserable failure, but one thing was clear; his computer was up to something. He'd lost his wrist comm, but there was a small video screen on the back wall, so John grabbed some clothing, saying,

"I'm going to assume there's an explanation for this, Five."

The vid screen lit up, coming back with,

_"Last John Tracy command not understood."_

"Bullshit. You understand me when you want to. One more time: _what's going on?"_

As the explanation began, John listened quietly, his beautifully chiseled face growing harder by the moment. At last, he nodded.

"Right, then. Here's the plan."


	3. Chapter 3: Air Strike

3

Every once in awhile (not so often that you'd get used to it, though), Gordon Tracy did the smart thing. This was one of those times. Moving carefully through the still, silent house, he turned a corner and spied TinTin, staggering drunkenly through Brains' laboratory, pistol in hand. In the pale half-light cast by the window-framed moon, Gordon saw the silvery track of tears upon her face... and caught a yellowish, cat-like gleam from her eyes. Trouble.

Back on San Mateo, she'd confided that the Hood was trying to get through her defenses, and that she wasn't certain how long she could hold him off. She'd begged Gordon not to tell anyone else what was happening. And so far, he'd done as she asked, doing his best to stop her attacker without revealing TinTin's plight. This, though, was more than he could handle alone.

He needed help, and quickly, but was uncertain how to go about getting it. Bits and pieces of the past had begun to return, some welcome, others not, but he still felt new here, and decidedly awkward. One successful rescue did not a hero make.

Then, looking worriedly around, he got a notion:

There was an intercom on the wall; the sort used to pipe soft music all over the house for fancy galas, or to communicate when Kyrano, say, was too far off to shout for. On a sudden impulse, Gordon darted over to the comm unit, punched in a certain satellite radio station, and turned the volume up to full, tooth-rattling intensity, in every room at once. Manchester United versus Shelbourne, last game of the championship, 1 to 3, with a minute remaining. The transmitted crowd and cursing announcers were _so_ loud, the very walls vibrated. A Doric column couldn't have slept through that.

But rousing the family was one thing; having them get there in time to help, quite another. The blast of hideous energy that ripped through Gordon's mind just then would have destroyed it utterly, had TinTin not used the last of her strength to shield him. Even so, he was bludgeoned unconscious, waking to find himself in the midst of a tense stand-off.

The Hood had forced TinTin to press the muzzle of the gun to her own right temple. Speaking through her mouth, he spat,

"This much, at least, I shall have! The child will die before your eyes, Kyrano, leaving me safely out of reach, until I choose to strike again. Unless..."

Gordon rose with Alan's help, surprised to find that he still had a head. His mind felt like an overturned sock drawer, but he focused as best he could. Gathered in the room, wearing night clothes and worried expressions, were Jeff, Kyrano, Parker, Brains and the ladies. Scott and Virgil were there as well, grimly hiding their weakness. Kyrano appeared to be in shock, his eyes locked on TinTin's pallid face, his mouth working in continual, silent spasms. Jeff and Parker were armed, but their guns were useless; shooting TinTin would do nothing but give the Hood what he wanted... an innocent victim.

The gloating villain went on, his channeled voice a velvety purr.

"...unless another agrees to take her place. One I do not see among you. Can it be that my enemy fears me? That he is too weak to show himself?"

"_Enemy!" _Jeff demanded, a cold gleam in his narrowed eyes. "What the hell are you raving about? No one here was your enemy, before you attacked us in Macedonia! Not that it matters. Understand this, _'Hood'_, or whatever you call yourself: International Rescue didn't start this fight, but we'll by God finish it! Harm that girl, and..."

"And what? There is nothing you can do to save her, Jeff Tracy. She belongs to me now; heart, mind and body! I am a clever man, Mr. Tracy; far cleverer than you imagined. I was shot in Macedonia and close to death; but able to use the power of my thoughts to heal the wounds, and cloak my escape...only to discover that everything I'd amassed was gone, _stolen! _As my grasping brother once stole my intended bride! But, you failed to quite finish me, didn't you?"

He went on; clearly barking, staring mad.

"I rose again, stronger than before, and smashed you down upon San Mateo... where my weapons and jamming systems were destroyed, forcing me to seek shelter within my own mind. But this time, I have the upper hand. This time... I will close our little play."

Possessed by the Hood, TinTin kept the gun pressed firmly to her temple and gazed lingeringly around at the gathered family.

"However, we need not be uncivilized about it. I will gladly accept a substitute in place of this child, and go my way in peace... For now."

Any of the others would have volunteered, but they were prevented from offering by the sudden appearance of John. He stepped into the cavernous lab from a side door, saying drily,

"My cue, I suppose."

"John! _NO!"_ Scott and Jeff shouted simultaneously, as he approached the enslaved girl. The Hood choked them off with a searing thought, losing just a tiny bit of his grip on TinTin in the process, and a little more of his power.

"Finally," his voice hissed from her bloodless lips. "I rejoice to meet the cur who has so often slunk between the Hood and his rightful prey! I had begun to think it would be necessary to kill one of your litter mates to flush you forth, coward."

John shrugged.

"Whatever. I'm here."

The instant he came within reach, the possessed girl struck like a snake. One hand shot out, seizing John's shirt and yanking him closer, while the other jammed the pistol against the underside of his jaw. One shot would blow his brains out. The Hood chuckled softly from TinTin's body; the leering expression his, the silent tears, hers.

No one moved, hardly daring to breathe, while the Hood spoke through her mouth.

"If I had you in my possession, vermin, I would bring you ten thousand times to the brink of death, and ten thousand times drag you shrieking back, but here I can only kill you once. I shall try to enjoy myself, nevertheless."

John hardly seemed interested, his gaze flickering briefly to the data screen of a nearby autoclave, then returning to those weird yellow eyes. He looked rather impatient, as though he'd just remembered an important appointment.

Virgil started to move forward, but Jeff stopped him with a single sharp gesture. If John had a plan of some sort, (and his father hoped to God that he did) he needed time to play it out. Fortunately, the Hood was in no hurry to reach the end of his sadistic trifling.

"Any tender sentiments for the rest of the litter?" He inquired, enjoying himself.

"They already know." John glanced aside again, at a different monitor, this time, and read there an all-important message.

Halfway across the world, high over Asia, a set of powerful military satellites had just been reprogrammed, their laser weapons given a brand new target.

"Wait," John ordered calmly, as his disappointed captor made ready to pull the trigger and his family tensed to spring. "I do have something to say."

And then, as the Hood paused expectantly, John looked him full in the eyes and smiled once, coldly.

"Good-bye."

Triggered by Five, fifteen weapons-grade lasers fired at once. Fifteen bolts of energy shot from far overhead like a second sunset to incinerate a rundown Malaysian temple. Wood vaporized, stone ran like molten sugar, soil fused into glass. As for the man within...

TinTin gave a single, mighty convulsion, uttered a despairing scream, then dropped the pistol and collapsed. John caught her before she hit the ground, handing her off to Gordon and Alan, who'd lunged forward, with the rest of the family, the instant she'd begun to fall.

He stepped away from the milling crowd, working his bruised lower jaw just a bit.

"Timing could've used a little work..." John said to himself. And then, looking over at the data screen. "Good job."

It flashed once, transmitting a message intended only for him, to which he replied,

"I'll work on it. Gun-point conversations aren't my strength."

Then Penelope glided over, her composure unshaken, and John turned his mind to other things.

Moments before, Jeff had drawn Kyrano aside for a long, private talk, and Gordon carried TinTin over to a nearby couch, Alan trailing anxiously behind. Scott had lowered himself into a chair and sat there wearily, head in his hands, while Cindy rubbed his shoulders. Virgil, slumped in a nearby seat, looked ready to pass out again. Parker yawned hugely, holstered his sidearm, said something to the room in general about returning to bed, and left them all. Grandma and Gennine remained behind for a bit, assisting Virgil back to the infirmary, then returning to see about the others.

The younger boys were deeply concerned about TinTin. She lay there on the couch, still and helpless, like an un-strung puppet. Gordon looked up as someone approached. Brains. He surged to his feet, interposing himself protectively between the on-coming scientist and the comatose girl. Hackenbacker paused, squinting a little.

"Gordon," he said, "I'm, ah... I'm only t- trying to help. You c- can watch the whole time. I wouldn't h- hurt her any more than, ah... than I'd hurt you. I s- swear."

Brown eyes and hazel locked gazes, patience meeting suspicion head on, and overcoming it. Gordon nodded and stood aside... but stayed close. It would be early afternoon before everything was sorted out.


	4. Chapter 4: Conference

4

The boys gathered in the breakfast room for a private conference. Their father was holed up in his office, on a secure. simultaneous comm-link with WorldGov, Interpol, and the Malaysian Peace Council. He was going to be busy for quite some time, which left his sons plenty of space to talk things over.

TinTin was upstairs in her own bedroom, sleeping it off. She'd wakened briefly, smiling up at Alan and Gordon as though nothing had happened; and indeed, for her, nothing had. She recalled no more than falling asleep at Gordon's bedside, then waking on the laboratory couch, having had a strangely restless night. It was better that way, probably. The boys quietly decided that she'd never find out about the night's doings from _them_... and she never did.

The room was flooded with sunshine and bird song, the open french doors letting in all the beauty and warmth of a tropical morning, the white walls, polished wood and filmy curtains fairly glowing. Another day in paradise.

Grandma made them a late breakfast, giving each his favorite, "back from a hard rescue", meal. For Scott there was a fried egg-and-bacon sandwich, with strong black coffee. Virgil had a huge slice of pecan pie and a big glass of orange juice. John received scrambled eggs, sausage and toast, with everything arranged carefully upon the plate so that the various foods didn't touch. He, too, took his coffee black, and, as Grandad would have put it: "strong enough to float a railroad spike."

Grandma fussed a bit more about his food than the others, but then she saw him much less often these days, who'd once been her silent shadow.

"Mind you clean that plate, now," she ordered, resting a slim hand on the back of his neck, briefly. "You're still too skinny, by half! Turn sideways and you'd disappear altogether! Damn space station food wouldn't fill a gnat. What Jeffery's thinkin' of, letting you go off like that, I don't know..." and she stumped off to the kitchen again, still complaining. John smiled a little, but cleaned his plate.

Gordon had started to help Victoria Tracy bring in the food, but she'd stopped him with a sharp look.

"I _don't_ know how they manage these things back east, young man, but where I'm from, the men don't fetch and carry to the table. The boys do." And then with a mischievous smile, "Alan, get yourself up and give Grandma a hand."

Apparently, the youngest Tracy was still in hot water for talking back to his mother in front of Grandma. Alan blushed, mumbled something, and got up to help.

She needed him, too, because Gordon (who ate like a forest fire) required a great deal of feeding. He didn't much care what was on the plate, as long as it kept coming, replacing what his brutal training regimen constantly wrung out. Plenty of caffeine, too; gratefully accepted in whatever heavily sweetened form she cared to deliver it.

Alan finally thumped down with a bowl of Lucky Charms, a kiss from his grandmother and a flaming face.

"How come _I _have to help serve...?" he groused, pouting like a child as he sloshed an ocean of milk and sugar into his cereal bowl. "I'll be fifteen in..."

Virgil put down his fork and shot the boy a quelling look.

"Shut up and pay attention, Junior. Your mouth is robbing your ears."

Alan started to reply around a mouthful of cereal, but Gordon kicked him under the table. Chastised, the younger boy choked, swallowed, and shut up.

Pretending not to notice, Scott pushed his plate away, looked over at John and said,

"So he's dead?"

His blond second brother paused a moment, then said, consideringly,

"Unless he can teleport, or reassemble his atoms... Yeah. I'd say it's a safe bet he's one with the cosmos."

Scott nodded. Like John's, his eyes were a deep violet-blue and very serious.

"What about the General?"

"Matter of time. Interpol is flushing out the last of his safe places , and I've managed to get a few of our operatives on each of the strike teams. Two days, maybe three, if he puts up a fight."

"Things 'll be back to normal, then, soon," Scott sighed. "We can start slipping out again. How's the new space station coming along?"

John arranged his napkin, plate and utensils before answering,

"I've had the virtual tour already, and it looks good. Bigger, and better positioned. It'll be out at L5 instead of low orbit. Much harder to hit. If we go ahead with round-the-clock construction, she'll be up in six months."

Scott seemed satisfied, but Virgil, a hint of concern in his brown eyes, probed further.

"Still sure you want to be back out there, full time? I mean, we could always take turns, or..."

John shook his head no. He didn't really know how to explain the need to take his awakening computer and withdraw. Penelope hadn't understood, either; calling him cold and unfeeling. Not that he didn't care for them all. Not that Earth didn't have its moments... but he didn't really belong here anymore. Life, up close and personal, was just too complicated.

"I'm sure." Then, "I'll stay in touch. There are comms."

"...And frozen pizzas," Virgil cut in suddenly, smiling broadly. "I know, John; you won't shrivel up." His smile faded just a little as he added, wistfully, "But it's been kinda nice, having you around again. For such a quiet guy, you sure do leave a hole."

An unusually reflective and sentimental observation for Virgil, but it had been a tough few months.

"I'll visit."

"You'd better! If Grandma has to come up there and fetch you, she'll kick your bony ass all the way back from orbit."

They laughed, a little ruefully, for their Grandmother was more than capable of doing just that, with the business end of a shotgun, if necessary.

Scott looked over at Gordon, who'd finally lifted his head from his food.

"What about you? Staying awhile?"

His red-haired brother responded with a brief nod.

"Trainin' starts up again next month, but until then, I'll stay on. And, uh... you can call me up if the need arises, even so. Just a few swim meets, after all."

"Right. Glad to hear it." Now Scott shifted his attention to his youngest brother. Alan, caught in mid-chew, swallowed hastily and tried to look cool.

"So... you're official, now?" Scott asked him.

"Yeah. Um... I can come along, anytime." Alan replied, hating the slight squeak in his voice, like he hated the pimples.

Scott chuckled. They'd been there, all of them.

"Welcome aboard," he said, smiling.


End file.
